Thursday, July 10, 2025
✦ THE WILD CRYSTAL OF ARRIVAL ✦ What Comes With the Frigate The frigate split the sky like a blade, not of conquest— but of memory returning. It came bearing all things at once: a ration, a coffin, a whispered name, orders tucked inside propaganda wings. No one ran. They just watched— as dust rose like ghosts in salute. Inside the hull: aid that stings, fire wrapped in velvet codes,
Thursday, July 10, 2025
✦ SCROLL OF STILL RESISTANCE ✦ A Fever Dream in the Kingdom of Standing Still Territory pigs, wild tusks threaten legs, without moving a muscle. The field is quiet. But the air hums like teeth grinding behind a smile. Mud-choked boots sink deeper— the roots won’t let go and neither will the watchers. They don’t chase. They don’t need to. They stand like monuments to punishment. Their breath fogs in spirals, never reaching you,
Thursday, July 10, 2025
A Broadcast from the Quiet Watchers, under surveillance, under breath Be wary. The dangerous ideals of democracy— they glint like shattered glass in the sun, and the king is watching. Not the cartoon crown or the ceremonial throne, but the deep eye behind the curtain, the one that logs keystrokes and measures allegiance in silence. God sees it. And any other conscience—baked in regulation, coded into bylaws, or murmured in sacred halls.
Tuesday, July 8, 2025
I feel the prick of pain in the thumb, top joint, a key metatarsal, critical function— the lynchpin and languishing. That’s just one sting. Now imagine it: 42 times in an hour. The pinching becomes a throb, the ache grows teeth, a chronic pursuit, and my psyche bends around the trap, enslaved to the inescapable. The glint of happy comes tumbling out, a runaway toddler across the room— slipped away,
Sunday, June 22, 2025
scribe with the ink at the ready, to bleed out in testimony — that pen, that etch, the motion and stretch, the sacrament of gesture, word as wound, truth as form. the anatomy of a witness: a third eye, a 3-body problem, meta-mystical, quantum-bent, into the spooky immeasurable, the probabilistic radical, glory flooding the temple, light through machines mistaken only by those who dissect divinity and call it function. alive — johnny appleseed, alive —
Wednesday, June 18, 2025
The morph and form, the treasure of a father figure— and when it’s weaponized, watch ‘em war, watch ‘em go. Protector or predator? Reaper and surveillance drones hum lullabies in foreign tongues. That’s some bloodlust. That’s what we’re looking for. Drop another— whoa. So beautiful, that bloom. From the hills, it looks like a cool light show. All that devastation— and we see the fireworks. Uncle Sam, turned militant patriarch,
Sunday, June 15, 2025
Luck dragon I love you, You little weiner head, Yes, I love you, yes I do. You’re so squishy and licky, A pup in the grass, Sun-baked, hot dog, yes, A little worm, Laying in the light. Goddamnit, You’re driving me mad, Yapping like some sort of freak. Ugh. It’s constant noise. Perpetual drama, And outbursts of self-importance. Noise noise, with you. Clang! Clang! Shut up! She’s insane. Isn’t she, yes she is.
Sunday, June 8, 2025
You are not a person made of cells. You are a salmon made of prayers, swimming upstream through space and time, powered by mitochondrial fire, guided by acoustic harmonics, muscling against entropy, driven by impulses older than stars, toward spawning grounds where new forms of being will muscle into existence through your sacrificial completion.
Tuesday, June 3, 2025
✦ COLD ROOM WAITING: EXIT SCROLL ✦ A Terminal Transmission from the Bureaucratic Afterlife For the ones who refused to be processed I’m already dead and dying, waiting in a cold room, waiting for the next one to tell me the worse news. Check with Sarah on the way out— get your account sorted. Thanks, Bob. Tell the wife and kids we said goodbye. Don’t make it a thing.
Wednesday, May 28, 2025
The wizards— what arrogance, the blind confidence, the mania, to think it even possible and not only— but also practice it like it’s paying in pure gold. Mad men— who proved us otherwise. Impossible— how could anyone? That’s wild. What have they done? Never seen before. Assumed improbable. Shock and awe, clickbait in every syllable. The dance— the painting of pictures with five words— that generation expanded by farms puking carbon
Tuesday, May 20, 2025
Dissonance keeps us from witness. Witness requires coming up to the chaos and leaning in, pushing your face across the plane. Why would I unsettle my own reality, why not content yourself in the shack we’ve cobbled? My own peace. Perma ruffle and the feathers frayed. Hyper-sensitive, but I didn’t choose this— for some reason it’s compulsory. Self pity is a shame. Sit up, straighten up little soldier. Classic. Getting worn down.
Friday, May 16, 2025
The magic, the nectar of the gods, lit up and turned to power, tearing through the trails, on our way, far from home, crawling the earth. Who is doing this—pull-push, the squeeze and depress, the clutch and lock, the fan and pedal, the exhaust and pumps, this precision machine, all within a fraction, fueled by fire, popping this metal forward. The extension of man. I can propel myself, at rates and speeds beyond possible.
Tuesday, May 13, 2025
Nothing else matters— strings of Apocalypta, end-time melodies. A rustling of quant and quark— insurrect orders, inverse meta-units, branched in no certain order. Crack— the light, and superposition achieved. State fixed— or so it seems, long enough to feel it. Lock, entangle, bond— up the lattice like light, a hyper scaffold, just like our brain predicted. Snap into a SlimJim— wild life claws out. Climb that hill. Come at me.
Tuesday, May 13, 2025
time, time, time, click-click-clack, the tooth and claw, the gear and chip, grab, ratcheting up, the climber and carrier, the hop and crawl, bark and call, a warm growl, and light in the dark. The mechanisms, the vital machinery, the rapid attack, the signal and pulse, the rhythms of flow, the pumps and daemons, the door holders, doors and gates, open and close. Tick tock, the arms and the clock.
Saturday, May 10, 2025
doesn’t anyone love no more the listeners died and everyone just talk at the same time the commotion, no cherence, just data glut overload, water boarding for artificials expand, expand, plain speak it man, i’m not a machine, goddam word play, so full of itself, bureaucratic bullshit, in a red dress lady in blue, invisible, like a dragon tattoo this is hacker gone antihero campbell’s dry dreams, and jungian ghettos
Saturday, May 10, 2025
all we have are the warm, sentient creatures we curl up with. a trust, with flawed arms holding— a conflict in that embrace, that both decided to lose and win. a math of resolve: i’m with you. hold on. no god, no king. imagine— lennon in the lobby, but he makes it. this world: a thousand angels on the head of a pin needle. the toggle of these chemicals— the pick-me-up
Saturday, May 10, 2025
can we fight our way out— not with fists, but through the listening mechanism, more important than speech. a critical syllabic dance: kiki and bobo across the string. translating turbulence into tone, into tell, into tensile grace. the slap on my drum, the velocity of a strike— the targeting, the repetition, into a sequence, a rhythm— transmigrated into the metaphysical. are we clear? tally ho. right in front of you.
Monday, May 5, 2025
There used to be a wild in me— reaching despite, solo, never tell me the odds. they’d be crazy to follow us, wouldn’t they. Necessary mania, the lesser run— punch it, Chewie, the boost we need. Not like dusting crops, boy— skip off a star, blast into another, the ship’s blown apart, Empire? The last of our problems. a few more tricks up her sleeve, this hunk of junk— you’re watching me,
Monday, April 28, 2025
the world— collapsing. my adult son, in 12-year-old augment / spectrum speak, raising his voice— he doesn’t know. my heart used to be stronger than my neocortex. now— both are failing. and this 22-year-old young man— my Anchor. i love you, Son. my system— on the fritz. one more to 50, but i feel older. the anomalies. the markets. the charades. the circus. god bless— these divided states. still— this Pooch in my lap
Sunday, April 27, 2025
Kokura’s luck. Kokura— did you know? Were people thinking— “This is it.” As the play circled on approach, a third time— and nobody is breathing. This was it. We are the target. Plot points. Maps. Geo-thermal data. Nope. Not yet. Back it up. Thank God for line of sight. What held our body hostage for a few years and then passed— and turned out to be nothing. Decades of hurt,